The truth, my truth
by Imstillhere3
Summary: May 9 2011 marked the death of a person I had been for 21 years. That day created a split in my life, one that left me referring to myself as "the old me" or "the person I was" vs "the new me" or "the person I am now". On that day the Quinn Fabray everyone knew died and another person was born. Sure, she looked the same and had the same voice, but she'd never be the same again. AU
1. Chapter 1

**To be as blunt as I can, this short story is about the aftermath of a rape and the ramblings of a survivor...so read with caution. There might be triggers for some... so if the topic is too mature or too much then don't read any further. Thank you.**

Dear Journal,

People never consider that the place you think you are the safest could ever be corrupted. Most people rush through dark alleys, rush to their car in the parking lot at night, rush past a crowd of howling men... all to get home; safe and sound. Once they are there, the feeling of security rushes over you and whether you realize it or not you let out a breath of relief as soon as that locked door has closed behind you. I used to feel safe when I would come home and lock my door. A locked door does that for most people, but it's a mute point when you unknowingly lock yourself in with a monster. Unfortunately, my locking the door gave him all the privacy he needed. It became a barrier to my way out.

Shivers still go down my spine today when I think about how he left me that night: laying, bleeding, crying, weak. His weight shifting off of me instantly became one of the best feelings in the world. I still am not sure if I couldn't move or if I was too scared to even try while he put his clothes back on that night. Either way I remained a statue, even when he bent down so his face was inches from mine and uttered the words that will forever haunt me, "You better get used to this... because it's going to happen a lot more now." The words assaulted my eardrums, the look of his lips curling into an evil grin assaulted my eyes. "Learn to like it." The words he just delivered sounded definite. He meant them with every fiber of his being. With one last slap of my bare skin he turned and fumbled with my door lock (oh the irony) before he exited my bedroom and let himself out of my apartment.

I don't know how long I lay in that bed after he left. My eyes were locked on the front door knob, as I had a direct view from my bed. I remember my mind playing tricks on me because every so often I swore I saw the door knob move. When that happened my ragged breaths would hitch in my chest as I waited to see him come back inside for round two. But that never happened, like I said, it was my mind playing tricks on me. I'm not sure when or how but eventually I realized that he wasn't the only one who could come back into my apartment. Any of my three roommates could come home at any point. I didn't want them to open the door to find me like that...did I? I continued to lay still as I thought about it. An internal monologue going through my mind. What do you want right now, Quinn? My brain seemed to scream an answer at me almost immediately: _A shower!_ As soon as the thought entered my mind it was as if I couldn't get it out. I HAD to get in the shower and I had to do it now. His sweat was all over me, the smell of blood filled my nostrils, the thought of him and what he left behind inside of me made me feel like I had bugs crawling all over my skin. That thought motivated me enough to push myself painfully up.

I don't know how long I stood in the shower. The water in my apartment got very hot, probably too hot for my skin, but I didn't care. The scalding temperature was welcomed as I leaned against the wall for support. The thought of Olivia Benson from Law and Order ran through my mind. I used to love the show Law & Order: SVU, I watched it all the time. So I was more than familiar with the fact that as I stood in the shower, as I scrubbed my skin raw, I was washing away any evidence of the crime that had just taken place. As I leaned against that shower's wall I cursed Olivia Benson, a fictional character, for making me feel guilty about the shower that I absolutely needed. She made me feel guilty of the fact that me jumping into the shower so quickly sealed my fate. Now that I've showered, reporting it would be useless. So, in the shower I stood...hating myself.

Long after the water turned cold, I finally gathered enough strength to turn off the shower. To this day, three years later, I have no idea where that strength came from. Convincing myself to leave the shower meant facing it. As soon as my bare dripping wet foot hit the tile, it meant that I would be stepping back into the real world. This was my first step as "the new me" and I couldn't even honestly tell you how I brought myself to do it. All I can tell you is that I cried, the entire time.

I had to lean my entire body's weight onto the door frame as I rounded the corner to face my bedroom again. The towel I had wrapped around me so tightly didn't feel like it was enough. The bed, with it's disheveled sheets and the pillows strone about, felt like it was mocking me as I struggled to remain standing. It, along with the pain that coursed through my lower body and wrists reminded me of what happened. Staring at it all just made it feel like it was still happening. Over and over.

My eyes rested on my cell phone which sat on the edge of my nightstand. I had to have it. I quietly inched towards my bed, as if a giant bear were laying on it and if I made too much noise or any sudden movements it would jump up and kill me. As soon as my fingers made contact with the phone, I quickly snatched it into my chest and immediately retreated as quickly as I could away from the bed to the furthest wall in my room. Without taking my eyes from the bed, my back hit the wall giving my legs permission to crumble underneath me. Down the wall I slid, a loud sob escaping my lips as my backside made contact with the floor. I finally was able to tear my eyes away from my bed long enough to look down into my hand. I was grabbing my cellphone so hard that my knuckles had turned white. I remember opening my contacts list and then immediately I paused. My thumb hovered over the bright screen as I realized what I was doing. Was I really going to make a phone call? What would I say? Who would I call?

My relationship with my parents isn't the best, they weren't even a thought. My older sister and I have an awkward relationship as well, so her name was quickly thrown out. I didn't have a boyfriend. Santana. Yes, I'll call her. She was teaching at her job at the dance studio right now but she would answer if I called enough times. I stared at her name. She was not only one of my roommates but also my absolute best friend, someone I had told everything to. However, somehow I was sobbing again as my thumb separated from the screen once more. I couldn't call her. Her and her family were about to leave on a ten day trip to Spain. If I told her, it would ruin this once in a lifetime opportunity for them all. I didn't want to be responsible for ruining the people I loved most in this world's life. I remember more sobs wracked my chest as I realized that if I couldn't tell my best friend, then I couldn't tell anyone. Keeping secrets from each other wasn't something that we did.

What would I tell people anyway? I invited him over that evening. I told him we would be alone. I all but asked for this... didn't I? The year is now 2014 and I can answer with certainty: No. But until recently I have battled with this over and over. Sadly, our society makes this awful crime harder and more painful than it already is. Rape is the only crime in which the victim needs to prove their innocence. The victim gets treated like a perpetrator. Because this is socially known, because of the rape culture that we are all exposed to… I treated myself like a perp. I had to prove to myself that I was in fact innocent. Unfortunately, this process, this coming to an innocent verdict took years of my life. Right after it happened, as I sat propped up against the wall debating with myself as to who I should talk to, the only thoughts that were running through my mind were those of accusatory guilt. I put myself on trial.

On May 9, 2011 did you initiate contact with my client, the defendant? _Yes_

How did he know to come to your apartment or where it was?_ I told him when to come and gave him directions._

So you asked him to come?_ Yes._

How did he know you were alone? _ I told him my roommates wouldn't be home._

Did he force his way into your apartment? _No._

Did he force his way into your bedroom? _No._

Did he rip your clothes from your body? _No._

Under what pretenses did he come to your apartment to begin with? _Um..._

Ms. Fabray, under what pretenses did he come to your apartment to begin with? ...

Your honor, I'd like you to instruct Ms. Fabray to answer the question for our jury.

Ms. Fabray answer the question. _I invited him over for sex._

So then you asked for it? _I didn't ask for __**that.**_

What exactly are you referring to when you say 'that'? _What he did._

And what is it that he "did"?_ He sodomized me._

(murmurs from the jury filled the silent courtroom)

Ms. Fabray, is it fair to say that you and the defendant engaged in sexual contact for many years prior to this alleged incident? _Yes._

When was it that you first engaged in sexual intercourse with the defendant? _I was 15._

So, 6 years ago, is that correct? _Yes._

And you two both had sex throughout the entirety of those six years? _Off and on._

So it is fair to say that you've had sex with the defendant off and on multiple times for the past six years? _Yes._

How many times would you say that you've engaged in sexual contact with the defendant? _ I... I couldn't give a number. A lot..._

Okay, and is it fair to say that during a number of these many encounters you and the defendant had engaged in rough sex at times? _Yes._

Is it fair to say that you and him have tried 'new' things together during these sexual encounters? _Well... yes..._

Then would it also be fair to say that because you didn't enjoy and were embarrassed by having tried this 'new thing' that you both participated in at this specific encounter on May 9, 2011 that you decided to accuse my client of rape?

Objection!

Sustained.

Nothing further. _That's not what happened!_

Nothing further your honor.

(murmuring between the jury members continued as the defense attorney retreated to his seat.)

Again, I stared down at my phone. I couldn't tell anyone. It wasn't possible. I was guilty in my own mind so how could I expect other people to think anything more of me? What was I expecting them to do about it? Nothing could be done. No one was home to hear me screaming. No one heard me begging him to stop. No one heard me crying... except him. He heard. He heard every word... but it would always be his word against mine, and I had only said one over and over again: "No".

-Quinn.

...

**Author's Note: I am appreciative of each of you who take the time to read this and take this journey with me. **


	2. Chapter 2

**Entry 2**

Dear Journal,

I've been thinking... I don't know whether or not to consider it a blessing that my roommates weren't home, or that they didn't come home during that longest hour of my life. On one side of things... if they had gotten home maybe they could have stopped it, or at least forced me to report it. However, on the other side of the coin that might have scarred them for the rest of their lives too or even maybe put them in danger as well. I go back and forth on the issue, even though it doesn't matter. Whether I end up realizing that I wish they were there or not, one way definite or the other, it's not like it will change anything. They weren't there. I was alone with him, end of story.

The first person I told was a new coworker three days after it had happened. We were alone closing the store together when she came up behind me to watch me lock away the keys in the safe. That is when I lost it. My first full fledge melt down, and it was with the new woman I had barely spoken to. When I could breathe regularly again, after I convinced her not to call an ambulance, the words tumbled out of my mouth. Her response? She asked me if _he_ knew that what he did to me was something I didn't want. She asked me if I was _sure_ that _he_ knew what he was doing was wrong. With my bruised wrists and my hysterical breakdown she still looked at me skeptically as I answered that he absolutely knew what he was doing, and absolutely knew that I didn't want it. I had screamed and begged the entire time. I said 'no' more times than I could count. Then the first time I told my new boyfriend, about a year and a half after, he asked me why I didn't 'do' anything. He asked me why I just 'let it happen'. The questions tore at my heart, for obvious reasons. Neither of these people are mean or evil. They aren't appalling or awful people. They just didn't know any better. Before this happened to me, I find myself wondering if I would have known any better myself? Would I have asked those simple but unintentionally hurtful questions like they had?

Telling new people never gets easier. It is awkward. Absolutely and 100%; unless they too personally know someone who had a similar experience. For the majority of the people who don't, there is never a good time to bring it up. It is something that, as a survivor, I could work into any conversation, solely because it is constantly on my mind... but isn't something that is socially acceptable to just drop onto unsuspecting people. I've found that the majority of the people I have shared my life split with tend to look like deer caught in headlights. It comes from left field, because it isn't something they had ever heard of happening to someone they actually knew. They don't want to accept it because to them, before that moment, it was just something that you hear about on the news or in the movies. They don't know what to say so either they end up saying something that sounds much like an accusatory statement to the survivor or they apologize over and over again for something they didn't do... only because that's all they can think of doing. Just prepare yourself, you are changing how they view the world with this confession. It changes a lot. And yes, it changes how they view you...whether it be a good change or a bad one, change is imminent.

So when do you bring it up to people? There isn't a designated set time to share your experience with someone. No matter how close you are or how close you believe you are becoming. It's been nearly three years since my attack yet I still have not found a way to tell my best friend. I let Santana go on her Italy trip in peace and when she returned and we moved into our new apartment, I let her think my strange behavior was because of stress from school and work. My parents and sister? They still don't know either. I dated my boyfriend an entire year before I blurted my secret out awfully at a lunch date with one of his cousins, someone I had grown incredibly close to over the year. I only told my boyfriend himself because of the panic attack I had when he whispered a familiar phrase in my ear. Now, as I grow closer and closer to his family, I find myself approaching a year and a half that I've grown to love these people yet there are so many of them that I continue to hold this secret from. The more time that passes by, I find the harder it is to share with them. Because like his sister said when I finally told her, "Why didn't you say anything earlier?"

Every once in a while you'll finally work the courage up enough to tell someone who, as it happens, has already been familiar with this crime. Whether it be that they too have (unfortunately) become a survivor themselves or they have a family member or close friend who had been through the same thing, they don't look like a deer caught in headlights in the middle of the night when you utter the confession. I myself had an experience with this. I told an old friend one day when we met up for lunch. As my heart beat wildly in my chest when the words rolled off my chapped lips, I prepared myself for another awkward conversation. Only, the awkward tension didn't come. Instead, when I finally let my gaze meet hers she looked me in the eyes and replied, "I had a feeling." My initial response was a long release of a breath. She hadn't looked panicked or like she wanted to run, her eyes while they held a sadness for me that couldn't be described were strong and encouraging. But then her words echoed in my ears... she 'had a feeling'? What did that mean? Had I acted poorly? Had I let my mask slip and let her see how messed up inside I really was? I had spent years making a foolproof mask that kept my secret hidden from the world when I interacted with people, how was this possible?

I think she must have seen my panicked expression, or maybe I asked her how she knew, I honestly couldn't tell you because it all happened so fast but to my surprise she had continued the conversation. She continued the conversation for the rest of our lunch and then after, unlike anyone else I had told before who unintentionally diverted the conversation as quickly as they could. During lunch she had explained to me that a close relative of hers had been in my shoes for years. She explained that there was something about me that had reminded her of that relative. She could see behind my foolproof mask, because she had grown up with a relative who used the same one. She said that when she saw me again after all this time, she just knew. She knew and she made herself available for me to talk to. Her openness and sincerity is what led me to confide in her in the first place; it all made sense. The rest of lunch she asked me questions about it, about the aftermath, about how I was doing now. She asked me questions I had always asked myself, like why did I choose not to report it? She asked me questions and sincerely wanted to know the answers, she listened intently. She, unlike any of the others, knew that it was a part of me now and therefore treated it as such as opposed to running away and avoiding it at all costs.

Telling people and talking about it are two different things. I know that for me it is at least. Finding the courage to actually utter the word aloud to someone who doesn't know is quite possibly one of the hardest things to do on this planet. It takes the wind from your lungs, it sends your heart into a wildly beating frenzy, it causes your hands to shake, which is why after you drop the initial bomb... it's hard to continue through. It's near impossible to follow it up with the details. Only one person in my life, my boyfriend, knows about the sodomy.

It disgusts me so thoroughly that when I gather the strength and courage to share the fact that I was raped with someone I love, I can't physically bring myself to say the grotesque word aloud. "Sodomy" and "Anal"... Those two words are the most disgusting words to "the new me". I couldn't tell you if "the old me" even cared about those words. I can tell you that when those words are randomly heard out in public, or on tv shows or movies or the news, that the "new me" cringes, quite literally. I can't control it. So telling people? I can't do it. If it's too much for me to handle, than it absolutely would be too much for my loved ones. I'll spare them that at least, or maybe I'm just sparing myself. Either way, like I said, telling people and talking about it are two VERY different things. Saying it aloud to my boyfriend will probably be the last and only time that I ever speak it.

But then again, 'never say never'. That quote means something completely new to the "new me" than it did to the "old me"... because when I used to say it... it was just something you would say as you joke with your friends about how you are determined to convince them to go skydiving. Never in a million years would I have ever thought that I would be "one of those girls". I never thought I would be a "victim". I never thought I would be raped.

So 'never say never' means a lot more to the new Quinn Fabray... because I know better now. The thing that you think is the most impossible...CAN be possible. I learned that the hard way.

-Quinn

...

**Author's note- First two entries are up. Thoughts? Ideas? Feedback for this new writer? Anything is wonderful. Hey, you took the time to read it, why not take the one to two minutes to leave a helpful review too? Thank you all again. Ciao.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's note: Many thanks to those of you who read. More thanks to those who signed up for alerts so you could read more. Thank you for the PMs and, Born2be: Thank you, sweet, for your review. **

Dear Journal.

So this is my third entry, and it's going to be an annoyed one. But hey, my therapist said when I was feeling a high of any emotion to write it out (if I could). So I guess that is what I am going to do, because right now... I could scream.

I think that my least favorite thing to hear as "the new me" is the phrase: "It gets better". Usually because it is said by someone who has no fucking clue about 'it' or what 'it' feels like. I know that people say it because that is all they can offer. I know that they usually feel awkward and stuck when the subject gets brought up so it is all they can think of as a form of support, so I shouldn't get mad at them for that... but I can't help it. One of the things "the new me" has acquired? A short fused temper. For no reason other than the fact that I am mad. I am mad as hell and it's been nearly three years.

My boyfriend's cousin, bless her heart, I've lost it with her plenty of times over the past couple years. Something as minute as her locking her car as I walk by it will set me off. The loud beep it emits to signify that it is now locked makes me nearly jump out of my skin. Rachel will do it on purpose to see me jump. She'll laugh and laugh about how 'silly' it is... until she looks at my face. She immediately sees the anger that covers it. Before I told her my secret, she would get defensive back and tell me that I'm being a baby, and get annoyed with my sudden outburst of anger that I unleash on her. She would yell back about how it was just a stupid car horn and that it wasn't a big deal. Now; however, that she knows my secret... she will laugh at me jumping out of my skin but then see my face and see the anger... but she'll also see the fear that hides behind that anger. She'll immediately cower down and repeat how she "always forgets that I scare easily now". (Whatever that means). I don't know which is worse: Rachel calling me a baby and telling me to calm down or her cowering down from my anger. Both sucks. I'd like to not jump in the first place. I mean, it's a freaking car horn. Why does _that_ make me jump? It's not like there was loud noises during my attack, nor did it happen in a car... I didn't even hear his car honk or anything of that nature... so what's the point of my jumpiness?

It get's better. That's hilarious really. Sure, the nightmares become less frequent but sometimes I'm not sure that is even a good thing. Because when they DO come... they sure hit you. You could be having a good week or even two...with some great solid sleep, maybe even a good dream or two. But then out of no where, for no reason in particular it'll hit you like a semi truck. Then it's effects will leave you feeling crippled for a few days. The aftershock of it will linger and in that timespan it's back to sleepless nights. Sure, you might not see _his_ face everywhere you go with the more time that passes but this doesn't mean you don't stop looking over your shoulder every couple of minutes. This doesn't mean that when someone comes up from behind you without you expecting that you don't have a miniature heart attack. It simply means that instead of seeing_ him_, you know see everyone else and automatically assume the worst. The man standing in the corner? The man walking to his car that is parked three spots down from mine? The cashier who smiled just a little too long at the check out line? The man walking his dog past your apartment? They are all out to get you. They all know.

Now rationally, I am aware that these random men are just doing their daily functions for their own lives, not even minding my existence in the least. I am aware that they could be amazing men, model citizens, even advocates themselves... but tell that to my brain. The part of my brain that, no matter how much time has past, is still stuck in that bedroom of that old apartment in pain staring at the doorknob begging God, Mother Nature, the aliens, the universe...begging all of it that he won't return. That part of my brain doesn't give two shits about what those men could be in reality... all that part of my brain knows is that it is capable of being hurt. Especially when you least expect it.

If I ever am in the position where I am talking to another survivor, if that survivor looks at me and asks me if I'm "better" than I was three years ago? I'd tell them straight. There is no such thing as better. Not when it comes to this topic. Realistically the saying "it gets better" should really be "things change but it will always be a constant". Sure, that is a hell of a lot less positive sounding as the alternative... but it's real. Like I've said before, I'm a different person than I was before May 9, 2011. This new me? She isn't changing. What happened to me isn't something that "gets better". It isn't a broken bone that heals and goes back to the original state... there is no going back for me. Because this _is_ me now. I can't ever be the "old me" again.

-Quinn

**Author's note: Thank you again. If you have thoughts, questions, ideas, if you are moved at all or not please let me know either way. Ciao**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Hello friends! Thank you for your PMs, I hope your questions were answered. Thank you to the anonymous reviewers for the request for more, it aided in my getting this chapter out to you. Special thanks to Shananigan for reviewing each chapter as you read it. I know taking the time out of your day wasn't something you needed to do, but it is certainly appreciated, friend. **

**For those of you reading, thank you as well. If you could spare the extra time to let me know your thoughts I would be more than grateful. Trigger warnings apply per usual. Much thanks, Ciao.**

Entry 4:

Dear Journal,

I take my last entry back. Well, not all of it but definitely most of it.

The worst thing anyone can say to a survivor? "You're lucky, plain and simple."

_You're lucky that it was just the one time._

_You're lucky that you didn't get severely injured._

_You're lucky that you didn't catch anything from him._

_You're lucky that he didn't kill you._

I'm lucky? I sure as fucking hell don't feel lucky. You know what is lucky? Finding a ten dollar bill on the sidewalk, getting your name picked out of a drawing, winning at bingo. Getting raped? Not so lucky. I guess that people want us to believe that what happened to us (survivors) is like winning the lottery. It certainly is how it comes off when a survivor hears those words uttered to them. Only, winning the lottery is a lot less common than rape is. It's said that 1 in three women will be sexually abused in their lifetime. Between me, Santana and Rachel that statistic sure rings true... have any of us won the lottery? No. Of course not. Every 2 minutes someone in the united states will become victims of a sexual assault... thats probably going to be 5 people by the time I'm done writing this entry. The recommended time the dentist suggests that you brush your teeth for is two minutes in duration. So every time someone brushes their teeth, THAT is the length of time it takes before yet ANOTHER person is added to the category of "survivor".

So I should feel _lucky_? Right. It took everything in me not to spit in that person's (who will remain anonymous) face today, no matter how much I do love her. Rape is way too common to be called _lucky_. It's way too hurtful and paralyzing to even stop to think about the idea that what happened to me was surrounded by any type of "luck".

_I'm lucky that it was just the one time?_ Right. It was one time. But every time I dream about it, every time I have a flashback, every time I _think_ I see him in the store, at the mall, on the street...I'm revictimized all over again. He made me a _promise_ that he would come back for more and he tried, SO HARD... but "luckily" I somehow avoided it. I refused to go back to my apartment for the remaining month that I lived in that apartment. I didn't answer any of his 40-50 calls a day, nor did I respond to any of his hundreds of angry threatening text messages that demanded to know my location. I thanked the universe every day that I had never told him which store I worked at, but that didn't stop my heart from skipping a beat any time a person walked in that looked like him. All of this sounds a lot more than just "the one time" to me.

_I'm lucky that I didn't get severely injured? _Sure you didn't know that it was sodomy. Like I said earlier, I've only mustered the courage to tell my boyfriend this detail...but that didn't stop me from educating you silently in my thoughts about the human anatomy. The anal cavity was made to be a one way street. That direction? Out. Not in, and certainly not in and out numerous forced times. Lube? No lube. And unlike the other orifice, there is no natural lubrication that is produced to reduce the friction. Those glands don't exist in the anal canal. So explain what you mean by severely injured? The nurse I went to days after the attack described me as "pretty torn up physically". I had to take stool softener because although, I wasn't eating much, when I did have to go I nearly passed out from the pain of it. So, that sounds pretty bad to me.

_I'm lucky that I didn't catch anything from him_? If she meant STDs? Then no. I didn't catch any STDs from that monster, but I did catch something. I caught the fear that he instilled into my bones that night. I caught the inability to be alone at home, the place I am supposed to feel safest. I caught the title of "victim" and had to change it to the term survivor with a lot of hard work and effort. How dare you say I didn't catch anything from him.

_I'm lucky that he didn't kill me?_ He did. I'm not the same person I was before my rape, whether you want to believe it or not. While this certain individual did not have the luxury of knowing "the old Quinn Fabray" I can definitely attest that I am not even NEAR the same person as I was. He killed Quinn Fabray, I had to be reborn. Like any child, I had to learn how to go through the day again from scratch. It was an immobilizing trauma that left me with no choice but to start over completely. Santana, my best friend, while she still doesn't know about this attack...could even tell you that I changed drastically from who I was to who I am now. She says it to me all the time with comments like "I don't know why you do this now," or "Since when does this bother you?" While she can't put a finger on the point in time when I changed exactly, I can. May 9, 2011.

So while screaming, "fuck you, you dumb bitch, you don't know anything," would have made me feel so much better at that specific point in time... the new Quinn Fabray knows better than to take her intense onset of anger out on someone she loves, especially when they think they are trying to be positive and "help me". While it killed me to simply force a smile and nod my head, it's also something I am more than used to doing. I held off until I could lock myself away in my room with this god damn journal that my therapist gave me and now here I am.

Now I can scream "fuck you, you dumb bitch, you don't know anything!" all I want. Because she didn't. She doesn't know anything. And while this fact is beyond frustrating, I am also extremely grateful for it. I wouldn't wish this first hand knowledge on anyone, ESPECIALLY the people I love.

However, us victims of rape? We aren't _lucky_. We are survivors...and there's nothing plain or simple about it.

-Quinn


	5. Chapter 5

At night I close my eyes and wake up at my old apartment with you on top of me.

…And I hate myself for it.

Every time.

I hate having that nightmare because it's not a nightmare at all- it is a memory. A memory of the night my life changed forever, and it keeps haunting me. YOU keep haunting me.

I should know better by now to quit begging it to stop because you didn't stop when I begged you… so why would it?

-Quinn


End file.
